


Able was I, ere I saw Elba

by fiercynn



Category: History Boys (2006)
Genre: First Time, Future Fic, Historians, Historical Metaphors, M/M, Romance, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-03
Updated: 2009-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiercynn/pseuds/fiercynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had never been difficult to be friends. And that summer seemed to prove that it wouldn’t be even after starting at Oxford or Cambridge, because they needed each other now, didn’t they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Able was I, ere I saw Elba

**Author's Note:**

> Probably my favorite thing I've ever written! Originally posted in 2007 [here](http://drinkswithdakin.livejournal.com/25314.html). Sources for the in-text quotes at the end.

_“We learn from history that we do not learn from history.” – Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (late 18th to early 19th century)_

_“The history book on the shelf / Is always repeating itself” – ABBA (“Waterloo”, 1974)_

 

They all lost track of each other for quite a few months into university, even Scripps. Their falling out was unexpected to him – which was naïve, perhaps, but not without reason or precedent. The weeks between Hector’s funeral and the start of uni had held a flurry of impassioned camaraderie, not only from shared grief but also shared confusion, bewilderment. They couldn’t get enough of each other: crowding into Posner’s bookstore with the excuse of annoying him or reading up before the break ended; going to see old films at matinee showings even though there was no need to find endings anymore; never actually mentioning school or Irwin or Hector unless they were completely and utterly drunk.

It had never been difficult to be friends. And that summer seemed to prove that it wouldn’t be even after starting at Oxford or Cambridge, because they needed each other now, didn’t they?

But that wasn’t how it worked out, or at least, not at first. They joined and life blazed on, and they found that without meaning to (of course, you rarely _mean_ to), they had just stopped being friends. There were classes, and new friends, and girls and boys, and teachers and books, and loads and loads of alcohol.

And it turned out they didn’t need each other, which, when compared to the other students around them, was perhaps a relief.

Yes, life went on.

“It’s wonderful,” Scripps told his family when he came home from Christmas, “it’s – ”

There were no words. There was no way to explain how at Oxford each moment seemed substantially longer, how so many feelings and events could be stuffed into a single hour and then _change_ in the next, how one could become a completely different person after just a few months. It seemed foolish to say so, but now Scripps could truly believe that the world was created in six days, with one day for rest, because every week his world was made anew.

And coming home felt almost disturbingly different, Sheffield so _provincial_, though he hated himself for using the word. But it did make him think of his old mates. Home seemed strange without them – everything in Technicolor instead of real vision, faded around the edges. It was the first time he’d thought about them in a while.

But when he went back to Oxford again, that first time, he found that something had changed between terms. Or perhaps his eyes had just been cleared. All that had once been new and exciting seemed so ephemeral, or at least, seemed _too_ new, and without any kind of foundation to ground him. Oxford had turned into something a little familiar, but without any kind of comfort, and when life had such a fast pace, comfort was more than essential. By spring, Scripps was tired and empty, losing sleep not only to endless lectures and papers but also to anxiety, and he couldn’t even remember how he had once been able to focus. His notebook lay untouched for weeks. Somehow, he’d turned into a passive creature that sat back and observed but didn’t seem to do anything about it.

He didn’t even have to ring. Posner found him on a Wednesday afternoon, in a library suffering through the entirety of the Dark Ages, and burst out, “I haven’t sang in weeks, not even to myself. We’ve got to find a music room.”

They did, and Posner’s smooth voice washed over Scripps like a breath of fresh air. The next weekend, they rounded up the gang for drinks, even the Cambridge lot; the gathering quickly turned into a night of thinly-veiled but welcome reminiscence. After that, things were mostly fine.

*

“It’s different than I thought,” said Posner. “Oxford.”

“How so?”

“It’s – it’s not the end of everything.”

“You thought it would be?” said Scripps, amused.

Posner gave a small smile, waving his hands about in a vague gesture that was supposed to indicate the finality of things, or at least, things before Oxford.

“No,” pondered Scripps. “How cliché would it be if I told you it’s just the beginning?” When Posner threw a pencil at his knee in retaliation, he added, “I do know what you mean. You get used to it, I suppose, too used to it.”

“It’s almost refreshing, in a way. Even if things don’t change.”

“Things always change,” said Scripps. “That’s the one consistency I know – things always change. Sometimes they just change back.”

*

Somehow, Scripps discovered, after the rekindling of their friendship, the Cutler lads at Oxford fell into the old pattern of spending time together without planning it at all. He’d find Posner waiting outside the chapel on random Sundays, eager to try out a new song, or they’d run into each other for various meals and take it for granted. Sometimes Akthar would accompany them, making them both laugh and slinging his arms around their shoulders as he’d always done. Even Rudge popped up now and then, usually with his girl. And Scripps did the same for them, finding them out when he needed to.

Dakin, of course, would merely barge into Scripps’ room at all hours to tell him about life, the universe, and everything. Which was not unusual – everyone did that – but somehow Dakin took up so much more space and energy than anyone else.

“It’s the ego,” said Akthar, predictably. Akthar had never cared much for Dakin – or at least, as little as he could care for a mate he’d known for years.

Dakin’s stories had become more and more outrageous, but Scripps was more than used to it by now.

With the others, though, it was still difficult to keep up with each other, life getting in the way all the time. Even when they managed to see each other, there were too many things to catch up on. And telling it all seemed repetitive and somehow uncomfortable, because they’d never needed to before.

“Oh fucking hell,” said even Lockwood after Dakin had finished relating his seventeenth conquest at Oxford thus far. “Can you not just make a list?”

Dakin raised his eyebrows, somehow managing to glare and smirk at the same time. “You jealous?”

“Of you, or your partners-in-shagging?”

The conversation was not directed in any way at Posner, who was sitting in a corner of the booth, drawing patterns in the condensation on his glass of ale, but suddenly Scripps felt that he should try to change the topic to something less volatile. “I’ll wager you can’t go a week without sex,” he said.

Dakin turned to him, now fully glaring. “Willing to put down money on that?”

Scripps wasn’t, really, since his pocket money was already on the low side after buying new books for various classes, but he nodded and said, “’Course.”

“I’m in,” said Timms, grinning wildly at both of them.

“Are you joking, I’ll put down five quid on Stu,” said Akthar, which surprised Scripps until he added, “His ego’s so big, he’s not going to lose to you lot even if he’s got to have blue balls for a week.”

Dakin didn’t even protest, so Scripps decided that in Dakin’s life, everything must come down either to sex, or his ego.

Scripps did lose that particular bet, but it turned into a pattern of all of them carrying out weekly pools to keep up with each others’ lives, gambling being better than gossip alone. At the beginning, sex reigned as the topic, particularly with Dakin, though after a while boredom led them to change it to betting on which professor he’d fall for next. Because although Dakin was just as careless as he’d always been with other girls and boys, he did invariably keep “falling” for various instructors. The pattern was always the same – talking about them all the time, changing his many views and learning techniques to fit theirs, and sometimes, even sex in that front as well.

Other pools dealt with their various courses of study, or even a lack thereof. Like start of second year, when Crowther decided that ignoring law for a career in comedy would be even better than for acting, and tried to join Footlights.

“John Cleese quit law to be an actor,” he said, justifying, “and you can’t even say ‘who’s John fucking Cleese’, because I know better what you know about it.”

True; they’d never had time to watch television at school, but they’d all gone to see _Life of Brian_ because Lockwood was feeling whimsical and his girlfriend waxed eloquent about it. Scripps felt vaguely guilty afterwards, but Akthar soon remedied that by remarking that if he felt guilty every time he ought to about religion, he’d never have time for anything else.

They all agreed to go see Crowther on stage if they could, wisely not mentioning the secret bets on how long he’d last before his parents would have something to say about it. He didn’t get in, though, so that ended that.

They even started doing endings again, though betting was difficult because no one wanted to take Hector’s place, and eventually money stopped being part of it. Whether they admitted it or not, it was for fun.

*

Astonishingly, Posner’s Dakin-worship faded almost completely within a year. Less astonishingly, he quickly found others to replace him. And Scripps was officially his regular confidante, whether he liked it or not – a bit unusual, maybe, since Posner saw more of Akthar than he did of Scripps.

Scripps couldn’t help comparing it a bit to Dakin, since although Dakin got what everyone _thought_ he wanted with some of his professors, Scripps felt that there was some measure of desperation in it, this relentless cycle. No matter, though. Dakin didn’t need his sympathy, just like – well, just like Posner didn’t need Akthar’s.

Usually Scripps wouldn’t mind giving advice to anyone, especially Posner, even if it made him feel a bit like someone who taught because they couldn’t do. Sometimes, though, it got to be a bit too much, Posner talking and talking, not knowing how to stop or when to let anything go.

“Who could love me?” Posner bemoaned, once again in a perpetual state of melodrama over some boy who either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“You idiot,” said Scripps, feeling irrationally angry, almost – _defensive_, “if you go around picking _Dakins_ all the time, of course they’re not going to love you. Dakin’s a good fellow at heart, but what do you expect from his type? They like the adoration, but they’ll never want you back.” He paused, flushed. “Do you do this on purpose? Distance yourself, look for the ones who are too full of themselves to care about anyone else? It’s as if you don’t _want_ to be happy or – find the right kind of person. Shit.”

Posner clamped his mouth shut, looking furious.

Scripps closed his eyes briefly and wished there were something to lean against. “Look, I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re right,” said Posner, his voice low. “That’s exactly what I do. Yes. But,” he said defiantly, “I’m an outsider anyway, aren’t I? This is my bloody life. And you’re one to talk. I may ponce around too much and fall for the wrong boys, but you – you write _every fucking thing down_. I’ve seen you. Talk about distancing yourself; you won’t let yourself get past your notebook.”

They both glared, and Scripps thought about how he’d never fought with Posner before, not even griping. Not that they always agreed, but they’d never had a resentful tone in their conversation. He felt almost dizzy.

Scripps had a lecture to attend, so they parted ways, but the next day Posner found him and apologized. It was another strange situation where Scripps didn’t know what to do; he knew he should be the wiser one, and apologized in that stead, but it felt weak. Still, it sufficed, for the time being.

*

“Revolutions are interesting,” said Dakin.

They were sitting in the grass, basking in autumn sunshine – well, if “sitting” described Scripps, leaning back on his elbows, while Posner sat cross-legged, carefully plucking blades of grass, and Dakin lounged as carelessly as was possible. It reminded Scripps a bit of old days in Sheffield, and he thought, this was how it was supposed to be all those months ago, the shiny-new and the familiar all mixed together. Comforting.

“I thought we’d had enough of blood and gore by now to keep them from being interesting,” Posner pointed out.

“Pattern-wise, I mean. They start with these huge concepts that are developed and embraced by the middle-class intellectuals and philosophers, usually against the upper-class. Somehow they ignite a passion in the lower classes to make them rebel, especially if it can be shown to be ‘for their sake’. Defeat the bourgeoisie, and the like. But that can only last so long, and then there’s some sort of radical phase where tons of people are killed in the name of freedom. And then there’s a complete reversal of some sort where the upper middle class regain control as a break from the bloodshed, but they make it all revert to the status quo, if slightly different.”

“Seems a terribly simplistic description.”

“Just look at the French Revolution.” Dakin held out his fingers to check off the steps, one by one. “Middle-class intellectuals and philosophers are the Enlightenment thinkers who are especially inspired by the American Revolution. Lower class revolt is the storming of the Bastille, execution of the monarchs, etc. Radical phase is the Reign of Terror and everyone being guillotined to death.”

“As opposed to being guillotined to life?” said Scripps.

“Then there’s a reaction against that – Robespierre himself being guillotined – and bit more of the radical phase in the form of the Directory – and Napoleon, I suppose.”

“Oh _yes_, let’s not forget about him.”

“Alright, so the radical phase is stretched out a bit there. It’s just because the French Revolution was so damn long. Anyway, it all ended up in a constitutional monarchy again, with France less powerful than it had been before. And the pattern works for others too – Chinese, Russian, whatever.”

“American?” said Scripps delicately.

“That’s different and you know it,” said Dakin, while Posner, surprisingly, nodded in agreement. “A colony throwing off its old country does _not_ a proper national revolution make.”

“Well,” said Scripps, “next time there’s a French Revolution, maybe I can help change it. Bring the Fourth Estate into the equation, mix things up a bit.”

Both boys groaned and swiped at him, still in a rare moment of solidarity. “I don’t know if you can just pass over Napoleon so quickly, though,” said Posner after a moment. “He’s not just a ‘radical phase where lots of people died’. He changed the whole political scene in Europe for years to come.”

“All I’m saying is that there are patterns, and you _can_ look at history in that way, as if the patterns are going to affect them and be in any way predictable. Napoleon too. Look at his defeats.”

“Brilliant analysis, except that you’re looking at it in retrospect. Tell me that if you were in their places, you’d notice the patterns before they happened,” said Scripps, eyebrows raised.

“We’re historians, aren’t we?” Dakin snorted. “We’re supposed to look at everything in retrospect, even what’s happening right now.”

That, somehow, made sense in a very strange way, so no one disagreed. Dakin flopped onto his back (in a way that Scripps would have described as dramatic if it had been Posner instead of Dakin) and squinted at the sky.

“The problem with Napoleon,” Dakin said suddenly, “is that he kept trying at the end and not getting anywhere, but not for lack of perseverance. Take his invasion on Russia. Napoleon made a move, but it wasn’t even that Russia defended itself – there were unforeseen external circumstances.” He pronounced those last three words carefully, sounding out each syllable almost with derision. “And then, you know, all the wars in between, and his double defeats at the end – he just _kept trying_, the poor bastard. No wonder he settled for peaceful imprisonment at the end. Sometimes it’s no fucking use.”

Scripps tried to sort out Dakin’s words, gently handling them in his mind but not drawing any conclusions on what to do. He didn’t think he could help Dakin. He didn’t think Dakin wanted help.

Posner was looking at Dakin, his gaze thoughtful, and then turned the gaze on Scripps, as if trying to make out his patterns, every strand of DNA displaying personal history. Retrospection of the present, Scripps mused. Maybe it was possible.

*

“I’ve stopped, you know,” said Posner sometime in January. “Falling for the wrong type.”

Scripps looked skeptical and ashamed at the same time. “Pos – ”

“Don’t apologize, that’s not what I was asking for.”

“You can’t just – _stop_, just like that.”

“Why not? I did.” When Scripps shook his head, he added, “It’s been _three months_ since the last one,” as if three months was a lifetime. Maybe it was.

“Dakin wouldn’t agree,” Scripps said without thinking, and Posner’s eyes flared up instantly with hurt and anger.

“You talked to _Dakin_ about this?”

“No!” Scripps felt as if he were choking, panicked by the idea of another fight that he couldn’t control, and – “Fuck, no. I just meant his theory – you know, patterns, history repeating itself, dooming us to repeat our mistakes.”

“Oh.”

“So, _if_ he knew about this conversation, which he doesn’t, he’d say that it was inevitable.”

“Well.” Posner straightened his shoulders back. “You’re the one who said everything changes. Besides, who says that’s the only mistake I have to repeat? I’ve fallen for the right type in the past too, you know.” He looked hard at Scripps and said tartly, “Sometimes that’s worse.”

*

Scripps had always disliked the trope of the Tragic Hero, thinking that the Greeks put too much trust in introspection. It wasn’t that the tales were depressing or unlikely – it was the classic moment of truth, when the hero knew himself, understood his mistakes, and realized his doom. It seemed so impossible.

Until Scripps found that it could be true. Not all realizations were gradual; some were epiphanies, made in the dark of the night, or during dinner, or in a staggeringly dull lecture.

He wasn’t pretentious enough or pessimistic enough to think of himself as tragic, for that, but it did strike a chord.

Scripps wrote about it that night, an ode to Tiresias, because Scripps had never had his blind prophet and perhaps he had needed one. Or maybe that’s what he was – blind, not tragic, and it seemed so unfair that his views had not been made clearer, and yet he was still doomed. Utterly unfair.

*

Although, “doom” was a bit melodramatic.

He and Posner were still fine. Scripps sometimes wondered if they were a bit more than fine. Retrospection, there it was, though Scripps wished he had been able to see it when it _was_ the present – and patterns did pop out. Clues. The problem was that it didn’t seem to make Scripps feel any better.

He didn’t search out Posner any more, but reveled in the times when Posner found him; their conversations were just as normal and natural, but shone out in Scripps’ memory like no other. And music especially, Scripps realizing how in synch they were, even though he already knew it (tragic hero, yes).

Scripps tried to be edgy. It felt pathetic, but it was probably better than nothing. He picked out the first few notes of “Easy to Love” on the old piano in the practice room, and of course Posner chimed in, _We’d be so grand at the game, so carefree it does seem_, hitting a high note on _shame_, his voice never leaving Scripps’.

It wasn’t like with Dakin, where any display had been, well, a display, so eager and direct that the only outcome could be embarrassment or skepticism. But this was no showy serenade. This was seduction.

And Scripps was so unreasonably terrified by it, as if even more change would be more than he could handle, after everything that was horrible had gone back to normal for so long.

Posner’s gaze dropped and Scripps’ fingers slipped, a discordant note interrupting the flow. He stopped abruptly and stood, wiping his hands on his trousers. There was no one else there with them, and Posner wasn’t looking at all like he was showing off, but he wasn’t despondent, either, just frowning slightly, his lips pressed together.

“Later, Pos,” said Scripps, not knowing what else to say.

“Right,” said Posner lightly, almost absently.

Scripps was simultaneously thankful and devastated by his tone, and left the room in a hurry. Maybe he was the one who didn’t know what he wanted. And even if he did, this was just too _hard_. It should be simple, even easy, but problems kept crowding in at the edges and Scripps was still not the one who acted upon ideas. He just tortured himself over them, and wrote them down to save the torture for later.

*

For all his accusations that Posner talked too much (not _true_, Scripps thought, just – talked too much about the wrong things), now Scripps couldn’t shut up about him. And even when his rants were couched in ridiculous, intricate metaphors, Dakin was a bit too perceptive.

Although he tended to get things wrong anyway. Ego, Scripps thought. The true doom.

“Look, alright,” said Dakin. “I think I get it. You want me to do something about Posner, don’t you? I suppose he’s old enough now, it won’t do him any harm. And if it’s been this long, it’s probably stuck, eh?”

“Thought of that, have you?” said Scripps harshly. He wanted to quote something, to have a proper grasp on his end of the conversation, but nothing appropriate came to mind.

“Oh, is that not what you wanted? Want to do the job yourself, then?”

Not a _job_, thought Scripps, but, surprising himself, said, “Yes.”

Dakin smirked a bit, but astonishingly, he didn’t comment.

So Scripps said it again. “Yes.”

“Alright, you can get that outraged, you-blasphemed against-Yeats look off your face, you know. So what are you going to do about it?”

And that was the life-affirming question, wasn’t it? The realization and the spoken decision felt like giant leaps for mankind already, and he felt almost weary. Dakin couldn’t understand. Maybe that was why Scripps couldn’t help him with his kind of desperation either.

The ironic part was that Posner’d probably understand both of them, but Dakin was irrevocably out of his picture now, and Scripps – Scripps was once lost, but now, almost found.

*

In the end, Scripps himself didn’t even have to do anything about it. _Stagnant, adj_, he wrote down, _characterized by lack of development, advancement, progressive movement_, one of many meanings. Which seemed fitting, perhaps – after all, everyone thought that it was Posner who should come into his own now, forcibly removing Scripps from his well-worn position on the sidelines. Scripps could have his turn later.

This was how it happened:

Posner, his impatience, eagerness, and (perhaps imagined) youth coming into play, made himself stop one day, in the middle of writing a paper on the rise of Bismarck, and, rather quickly, leaned over four open books, nineteen pencils, two cups of tea, and what seemed like _hundreds_ sheaves of loose-leaf paper, to press his mouth to Scripps’.

After an endless moment, he sat back. He looked nervous but almost expectant, as if waiting for Scripps to say, _“Pos”_, his voice laced with sympathy, so that Posner could mask whatever he felt with that half-resigned, half-defiant look on his face.

Instead, Scripps felt a giant relief, like learning to breathe again, and smiled, saying, _“‘Sweet youth, tell me why, sad and sighing, thou dost rove these pleasant realms? I pray thee speak me sooth, what is thy name?’” _

_“…he said, ‘My name is Love’, _” said Posner, and, “oh.”

There was a brief silence.

“Not shame, then?” said Scripps, anxious even now.

“Me? I thought it would be you, the one that dare not – well.” Ironic, that.

“Never. Just nervousness, I suppose. Fear of acting on anything.” Scripps shrugged, not knowing how to show that it was so much more than it sounded: ultimate terror instead of fear.

“Well, we’ll have to change that,” said Posner decisively, and smiled. It felt like breaking a pattern, or, maybe, _maybe_, starting a new one.

*

Later, under _stagnant_, Scripps scribbled down _The Love Song of Donald A. Scripps_, though hopefully for them the only true sentiment therein was, _and indeed there will be time_. Scripps was finished with epic indecision for now, as long as he had a little help to get him started.

He underlined it twice and left the rest of the page blank, a testament to all the things that could not be said, sung, or written down, and instead had to be shown, undertaken, and fiercely rejoiced, with his someone bringing him fresh from his exile and properly into the world, for all the time and ability that he had to enjoy.

**Author's Note:**

> I. The song that Scripps accompanies Posner on is "Easy to Love" by Cole Porter.   
>  II.The lines Scripps quotes after the kiss are from [“Two Loves”](http://www.law.umkc.edu/faculty/projects/ftrials/wilde/poemsofdouglas.htm), by Lord Alfred Douglas (aka Bosie).   
>  III. _And indeed there will be time_ is, of course, from [“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”](&;lt;/small&;gt;%20http:/www.bartleby.com/198/1.html), by T.S. Eliot.


End file.
